


Better By Far You Should Forget

by violet_storms



Series: sapphic september 2020 [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Doomed Relationship, F/F, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Memories, Sapphic September, Snow and Ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violet_storms/pseuds/violet_storms
Summary: It is not October but January that Narcissa dreads.
Relationships: Narcissa Black Malfoy/Lily Evans Potter
Series: sapphic september 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907998
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	Better By Far You Should Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the beautiful poem [Remember](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45000/remember-56d224509b7ae) by Christina Rossetti.
> 
> _written for sapphic september 2020, prompt: "mourning."_

It is not October but January that Narcissa dreads.

The day is crisp and cold and clear _(and Lily used to complain about that, she hated how it was always freezing on her birthday)._ Snow falls lightly on the terrace, settling on Narcissa's shoulders, and she wishes, wishes, wishes she could turn the blood to ice in her veins, freeze her heart until she's as glacial and emotionless as everyone wants her to be _(but she's not, and she never has been)._

It is not October but January when Narcissa's heart breaks. October passes like a dream every year, and on its final day Narcissa holds her breath for hours, waiting, but the pain never comes. The memories stay hidden in the back of her mind because though it is an anniversary, it isn't hers. _(It almost was.) (It never could have been.)_

But in January, every January, the grief is a sharp weight on her back, pressing in between her shoulder blades. She is Atlas trapped beneath the revolving sky, but she does not have the luxury of looking tired; Narcissa must keep her spine straight, the way her mother taught her, and her eyes clear. God forbid a Malfoy show weakness.

 _Malfoy._ The surname dangles from the edge of hers like a glittering jewel on one of her mother's necklaces. Sacred Twenty-Eight, like her father would have wanted, but he's dead now so it doesn't matter. Malfoy is her name, except it isn't. Malfoy Manor is her home, but it doesn't belong to her at all. _(Sometimes she thinks nothing does, and nothing ever has.)_

The snow has begun to fall harder now. It blankets the lawn in a flawless white sheet, and Narcissa thinks it could be beautiful, if it were not today. Nothing is beautiful today. She shivers—she's freezing—she's so cold it hurts, and she hurts because she is alive, and she's alive and Lily is not. Lily is dead.

Lily would have been twenty-eight today.

Snowflakes dance on the air, carried by the breeze, _and two girls are sitting by the lake, holding hands. "Don't you think it looks like confetti?" says the younger of the two. Her robes are trimmed with crimson, but winter has muted the color and you almost cannot distinguish it from the deep green of her companion's scarf. Almost._

_"It's snow, it looks like snow," says the other girl, her silver hair covered by a knitted hat she will hide away in her robes before she Apparates back home. "You just want it to be confetti because it's your birthday. Narcissist."_

_"You shouldn't be allowed to call other people narcissists, hypocrite."_

_"Not my fault my mother gave me a stupid name, nitwit."_

_"Pretentious snob."_

_"Second-rate delinquent."_

_Laughing, Lily rolls on top of Narcissa so they're both lying in the snow. "You can't say things like that to me today, you're not allowed. You have to be nice."_

_"I am being nice. I snuck all the way up here just to see you. It wasn't exactly a picnic, you know."_

_"I know," says Lily, her smile fading. "It means a lot. Thank you."_

_"Of course," says Narcissa, looking away._

_Lily breaks the sudden silence. "Next year I'll be out of here," she says. "I can't believe it. It's going to be amazing. The whole wide world in front of me."_

_"Lucky you."_

_"You'll be there too. We're going to do so many things."_

_Narcissa stares into her love's green eyes and feels her heart tear a little at the sight of the hope in them. "Lily..." she whispers, nothing and everything else to say, but she can't force herself to say it._

_"Narcissa..." Lily mimics. "It's my birthday. Let me have this. Just once." She looks so sad, and Narcissa is a coward, so she repeats, "Just once," and tries not to hate herself when Lily smiles again._

_"We'll have to live in a small house, since your family will cut you off and everything," Lily says, trying to sound lighthearted and nearly succeeding. "I don't mind it. It'll be cozy."_

_"I've never lived anywhere but the house I grew up in," says Narcissa, thinking of the impersonal, chilling halls of her family home. "I'd like to."_

_"I'd want a cat," says Lily. "At least one."_

_"You can have as many cats as you want as long as I get lots of windows."_

_"Windows?"_

_"And a swingset," says Narcissa suddenly. "I used to always want one, when I was little."_

_Lily looks down at her and Narcissa becomes aware of how closely they are tangled together in the snow. She can feel Lily's chest rising and falling with hers and she imagines for a moment that their heartbeats are in perfect synchrony._

_"All right, a swingset," says Lily quietly._

_Imagining is all she has. There are no swingsets and no windows in Narcissa's future and she knows that, has always known that. "I don't want you to have..." she begins, but there are so many things she doesn't want Lily to have. False hope. Hopelessness. A light heart. A heavy one. A life with her, a life without her._

_"It's my birthday," Lily reminds her. "Just once."_

_Just once: the words taste like gunpowder and salt, an aching sort of inevitability. Just once is just enough and they both know it. But it's January, and it's snowing, and Narcissa never has been good at certainty._

_"Happy birthday," she says._

_The wind wails in the distance, a lament, and_ if she had let herself dream of windows sooner, Narcissa thinks, perhaps things would have been different, but by then it was too late; she could only see one future for herself, and it was this one.

It is not October. She wishes, wishes, wishes it were October, but it’s not. It’s January _(always January)_ and Narcissa grieves her heart, grieves the life she could have had, the choice she could have made—because there was a choice. There was a choice for Andromeda, there was a choice for Sirius, so there must have been a choice for her, but somewhere along the line, she missed her chance, and now there are so many things to mourn.

It’s still snowing _(maybe it never stopped)_ and she’s still freezing and it still hurts, and as the cold sinks through her skin and into her bones, Narcissa listens to the sound of her singular heartbeat and thinks that in another life she has already forgotten Lily Evans. In another life, she is at peace.

In another life, but not in this one.

_(In that matter, there is no choice.)_


End file.
